


one thing he doesn't

by seasaltrox



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, M/M, Nobody Dies, as it should have been
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-13
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-12-01 19:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11493054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seasaltrox/pseuds/seasaltrox
Summary: There's five things Noctis comes to know over time (and one he doesn't, but it's alright, he's got time.)





	one thing he doesn't

**I. First**

 

Prompto adores physical connection — craves it, longs for it, inhales it into his core. Noctis is aware that much, perhaps not with everyone, but not a second nor minute goes by without his touch. It burns, it consumes him — Noctis draws in a breath at his touch, a simple graze against the cloth resting along his body from Prompto’s fingertips sets him ablaze. He’s burning, if Prompto were to touch his skin, Noctis is sure he would implode.

“You do that a lot.” Prompto waves a fry around — there’s ketchup resting among the corner of his lip, Noctis ignores the twitch in his hand yearning to reach out and wipe the drying tomato paste.

“Do what?”

“Tense up, y’know, completely freeze every time I touch you.” It doesn’t sound accusatory, Prompto doesn’t accuse — at least doesn’t accuse anyone who isn't himself. “You never said anything when we first met, so I always thought you were fine with it. I could stop if you want.”

“No!” A dent forms on the side of Noctis’ cup — lemon flavored syrup erupts from within the straw with a fizzle, landing on the hand who’s very pressure disturbed the drink. “It’s fine. There’s just too much going on, hard not to expect some sort of attack at any moment.”

Prompto hums, a shrug ending the topic at hand. Noctis slips lower against the booth. Words don’t work for him, words don’t form into coherent sentences which can properly explain why it’s difficult to breathe whenever Prompto grazes him.

 _Hey, Prom, sorry I can’t handle you touching me it just feels like you burn me alive every time you do_ — Noctis rips a fry in half, his teeth grinding down on the soft, greasy potato. Not going to happen, it frustrates him more ending every day inspecting his body in front of a mirror — he turns left, turns right, he searches for burn marks in the shape of Prompto’s fingers that don’t exist, never existed (but he wants them to, gods does he crave to see them decorate his skin, give him proof that Prompto is real, that he’s real).

“Noct, that’s right! I saw a sweet photo op down the road earlier we drove into town, think we can go check it out before the sun sets?” Prompto nudges Noctis’ hand with his own — they’re greasy from the fries, it makes Noctis’ nose cringe. It’s so Prompto. “It’s either before the sun sets, or when it first rises, your choice buddy.”

 _Neither_ , Noctis choice rests upon the tip of his tongue — Prompto’s hand dots with freckles, he burns holes into the sight of their hands resting together, the contrast in skin tones fills his lungs with embers. He’s suffocating, it’s all too much, it’s not enough…

“How about we actually finish eating first, instead.” Noctis draws his hand back — his eyes dart down to inspect it, those burn marks, where are they? They don’t exist, they never existed. Make them exist — his hand twitches, he wishes he was better with physical contact, he’s thankful that he isn’t. Prompto would never get rid of him, he doesn’t want to get rid of Prompto — selfish, needy, full of longing.

“Before the sun sets it is.”

It never sets, Noctis bites down on his tongue. It’s constantly rising, it’s constantly burning him — filling his lungs with ashes, he’s waiting for death, it’ll be a good way to go — with its touch.

Noctis settles Prompto with a nod.

 

**II. Second**

 

He’s going blind. Noctis rubs at his eyes — deeper, harder, rougher; his eyes cry, make the rubbing stop, the color of his eyes, he’ll rub them away. What was a thing a mother would tell her child? Don’t stare at the sun, for it damages your eyes? Noctis supposes it’s a good thing he never had much of a mother — _you’re going to lose your sight, my boy, the sun is for you not to stare at._ He trails after Prompto, is that what his mother would say? That boy is no good for his sight? Noctis supposes it’s good he never was much of a listener as well.

“You don’t do that thing anymore.” Noctis rubs the skin of his cheek with a finger, Prompto mirrors the act in confusion. “Where you spend time hiding your freckles.”

Prompto flushes — the shade of the setting sun, Noctis thinks. It makes his eyes water — too bright, don’t stare directly into the sun, he doesn’t listen; he can’t. To look away would be to lose the moment — he wishes for a camera to be imprinted into his mind, let the shutter click capture every moment, every sight of Prompto, every breeze ruffling into hair spun out of the sun.

“Yeah, no time to stock up on that concealer thing.” Prompto tugs at a strand of his hair, a nervous tick. Noctis’ eyes study him — he’s mapping out the stars of his skin. He could find an entire universe orbiting him, the stars on his skin, they gain their light from him; from the sun. “Gotta save up gil for potions and curatives now, Ignis would lose his head if we do so otherwise.”

“It’s better that way.” Noctis is sure he’s gone blind now, words exit through his mouth instead of his inner monologue — they’ve lost their way, he’s slowly losing his way; crashing, burning. “I like them, your freckles. It’s better than seeing you hide them away.”

Half empty bottles of concealer rest on the outskirts of Lestallum, tucked away within waste — Prompto shines, his skin glows. Noctis learns the sun has spots, he’s come memorize each one with the cost of his sight.

 

**III. Third**

 

Ignis hums when he cooks, Noctis has woken up to the domestic sound more times than an alarm. It used to be beautiful — _good morning, Noct,_ Ignis would hum, _go wash up and come eat, quickly before your food grows cold_ — now it sounds like a broken record; it skips, it stutters, replay, replay, replay…

“Noct!” Prompto skips steps when he’s excited — two steps, three steps, four; Noctis grinds down on his teeth, his hands once resting now clench the freshly washed fabric of his shirt. The sun, he wonders, can it fall? “Iggy went out to the market to restock on ingredients, but I was thinking we hit up one of the food stands for breakfast. Sound good?”

The streets are loud, they’re crowded, the world is waking up — Noctis stares, there’s people around, he’s aware, then why? His hands block his ears, they let go. Why is it that in the vastness of the world, he can pick up Prompto’s voice across Eos.

“Yeah.” Noctis nods, Prompto finally reaches him. “I think one of the stalls near where we parked the Regalia was already serving.”

“Great!”

They walk in unison. A lady hums a tune of her childhood, a song plays on the radio — Gladio claims to have been a fan of the melody, music radiates from within the speakers resting upon every lamppost of the city. It’s deaf to Noctis’ ears. Every note strikes the wrong chord, every voice is the incorrect tenor. The track — it’s skipping, it’s skipping, it’s skipping… it’s like an overplayed disc, it drives Noctis insane.

“So, Iris asked me the other day what the best way was to break it to Gladio that she wants to stay here in Lestallum.” There. Noctis skids to a stop — a power plant worker crashes against his back, the physical contact lacks the burn he yearns. There is the voice that makes the whole world sound tone deaf when sound reaches Noctis’ ears. A new song begins to play — Lestallum rises, it rises with Prompto. “I told her she was asking the wrong guy, that’s definitely something around Ignis’ field of experience.”

Prompto laughs, Noctis’ head spins. Replay, replay, replay… where’s the playback button. Every laugh, every conversation — it replays in Noctis’ head, late at night, while the world sleeps; the sun rises in steady breaths by his side, one, two, a quiet snore, three…

“Noct, you even listening to me?” A hand waves in front of Noctis — it flashes by in a blur, tiny particles of light dancing, twirling in his sight. There’s no physical body, Prompto’s nothing but light — Noctis feels a twist in his gut, he’s burning his wings off. He’s too close, he’s not close enough.

“Yeah,” he sounds breathless — he is, he’s suffocating, he’s going blind, he’s going deaf; tuned solely on the sound of Prompto’s voice, Prompto’s laugh, Prompto. “Scared of what Gladio’ll do to you for telling his little sister she should stay in Lestallum?”

That laugh, it’s there — film spins from within Noctis’ head, it’s shitty quality, he hears the whirring come to life trying to capture the moment, it’s not enough. He’s aware that when night comes and the world sleeps, he’ll be wide awake replaying every moment, every sound — _gotta get equipment that’s the perfect balance between audio and visual, Noct_ , Prompto informed him one day, sun kissed hands gently bouncing a camera, _or you’ll end up with incredible audio, but blurry visuals._

He should have read the manual, Noctis huffs out — the world, the memories, they’re so dull. He places a hand in front of his face, shitty quality. He tunes into Lestallum whispering good morning into his ear, static. A hum in delight — Prompto bites into the skewers as if it’s the last meal he’ll ever eat. It’s the highest quality Noctis has ever experienced — he’s ruined him, the world no longer sounds breathtaking without Prompto in the frame.

He’s resents, he can’t imagine living in a world without Prompto in his frame anyways. Let the world sound ugly, Prompto is every new track Noctis could ever need.

 

**IV. Fourth**

 

The sun rests among the sky. It’s common sense, Noctis sees it every day. He wonders — Prompto gently pats his cheek in greeting, _rise and shine, sleeping beauty! Breakfast is waiting for you, make sure to save me a bite for when I come back from my run!_ — can the morning sky be reborn within a person. Or better yet, how far can it stretch out. He watches — his throat feels dry, there’s a deep weight resting among his chest; he’s wrecked. The sun, it spins into strands that rest among Prompto’s head, composing his hair and kissing his skin. The sky, it illuminates the shine in Prompto’s eyes — he’s happy, they’re a vast blue; he’s upset, the sky looks gray.

 _Just like Gladio’s cheesy books_ — Noctis groans, he’s spewing poetry, words he could never dare to say over a sight that was once Prompto running, has always been Prompto running. He’ wrecked, he’s ruined — Prompto jogs back up the camp runes, eyes made out of the sky grin at him; a scratch, Noctis feels saved. Completely whipped to the core — he sleeps, Prompto, he wakes, Prompto. But gods has he never felt more rescued in his life.

“You actually woke up and it’s not even noon?” Prompto shoves his hair back — _I’m thinking of doing something to my hair, a drastic change for our soon to be road trip into manhood,_ Prompto toys with his hair in front of Noctis’ mirror, back then when they were fresh into twenty and still full of hope, _you think spiking it up would be a cool change?_

“I’m only awake because somebody couldn’t save a plate of their own food before leaving.”

Prompto gasps in fake offense, a heart to his chest — does his own touch burn him. Noctis flickers from the hand, to eyes that drown him. He stopped fighting, stopped gasping out for air as he sinks deeper, deeper, engulfed in everything that’s too much — he’s an addict, he decides one day, it’s never enough.

“You could be honest and say you just wanted to watch him run.” A brief shatter in the world that only composed of Noctis and Prompto — it’s hot, Noctis blames the sudden flush on that, the sun (the actual one mocking him above in the sky). He glares at Gladio, it’s all in vain — _Ignis don’t look at us like that,_ he yells with his eyes, _who’s side are you on?_

Ignis’ lips tug up at the corners instead — betrayal.

“I’m… gonna head over to the showers out by the dock.” Prompto is never flustered, not with them, not since the first times they met. He seeks cover in the tent to prepare his stuff, Noctis feels like screaming into his hands.

“You could say he looks great when he runs. Or spew out that cheesy bullshit you’re always mumbling in your sleep. Let us guess, the sun in what you kids are now calling each other nowadays?”

“You’re not that older than us.” Noctis snaps back — his ears tune to the sounds in the tent, they stopped, why did they stop. “Are you done running your mouth now? Don’t you have equally shitty romance novels to daydream about.”

“Touchy.”

An opening to retort, a sound of the tent opening back up cutting him short. He turns, eyes swimming like the ocean drag him back under. He’s ruined. Noctis know in this moment — this very second where he thinks back to all the times he’s opened his own eyes reflecting the sky (the one that’s seen at night which he finds so canny for he is the time after the sun sets and Prompto is all that is a new day) and meets his own with Prompto’s. He wants that every day, he comes to decide — ending his days with Prompto only to start them back up again, every day making it harder to end, but easier to start.

“I’ll, um, be back in a jiffy!” He shoots a grin — not forced, not strained; bashful. Noctis’ heart does a nauseous, love sick somersault.

Perhaps he’s been drowning in the dawning of a new day personified for months now — years, Noctis can’t bring himself to admit all those years he’s lost, the sky staring down at him but his own fear holding him back. But in this moment — in the now, in the present (because gods he’s terrified of what the future holds, it’s cursed him in his dreams, given him omens) Noctis decides he wants to keep sinking, deeper, deeper, let him drown in those eyes, let the light engulf his wings and send him crashing down.

 

**V. Fifth**

 

 _Tell me, were you worried about me?_ — he clutches at scratchy fabric, laced with dirt, sweat, and blood. It makes Noctis stomach churn, he’s shaking, he’s breaking. Prompto grounds him, the whole world is collapsing all around them.

 _Of course I was_ — he whispers the phrase against crimson splotched skin, murmurs it within a trail of freckles, whispers it against hair that was once soft as the sand underneath the soles of their feet as they rested upon the beach.

He shakes, Noctis can’t stop shaking — or is it the both of them? He can’t tell, the world is knocking them both off their feet, he’s struggling to bring them back up. Prompto is still, his body rises with gentle breaths — a sudden hitch, Noctis’ arms tighten around him. _I’m here,_ a thumb soothes out the lines between Prompto’s brows, _I’m here_.

A bare wrist stares up Noctis face — _judge me,_ it screams, _see all the marks surrounding me in attempts to come off. Judge me,_ it’s yelling, it’s glaring, _look at the monster that you hold in your arms._

He cups the wrist — a stir, Noctis freezes. He runs a thumb over the lines on Prompto’s skin — bump, bump, bump… the lines are rough underneath his touch. He raises the mark to his lips, a ghost of a kiss, a ghost of a promise — a storm stares back at him when Noctis opens his eyes, it’s raining. Noctis doesn’t realize it doesn’t rain indoors, in fact it’s physically impossible for such thing to ever happen and yet he still feels water land upon his cheeks, still sees water trail down Prompto’s face.

“Always.” There’s no context, no explanation. It’s okay, Prompto doesn’t need one. Noctis supposes that’s one of the many things he knew already — Prompto understanding him, that is. There is never a further need for him to explain the way words catch in his throat, never a moment to feel bad when a glance is cast his way in confusion.

“Ever.” Prompto trails the tips of his finger along the curve of Noctis’ jaw. It sets his skin ablaze — if death is out to come in this moment, let it be. If Noctis were to end the world in his sleep, Prompto in his arms, the sun in his hold with scars on his back from wings that were once there — wings they both had at one point, tucked away when they still had hope, then it would be the best way to go.

In the next life, he’ll find him. In every lifetime, in every reality, Noctis will find him. The sun — it rests in the sky for everyone else. His sun — the one here, looking at him with eyes that scream he is the world, rests on the ground, in a place where it waits for him to find him again. Through every lifetime, Noctis will go through the steps again. The burning of his skin, the loss of his sight, the tone deaf sound of the world — rewind, play, repeat. He’ll fall in every lifetime, suffocate in the vastness of a sky so blue, all for him — _you’re worth my time,_ there’s little space between them, he’s choking up, he can’t close the space, _I’ll always find you. I know you, I…_

It’s soft, but it erupts in ways Noctis never imagined — like a whisper, if a whisper lasted only a second and had hints of chapping with a huff of disbelief against his lips. Noctis finds it’s not enough, it’s never been enough. It’s rougher this time — he takes the step, jumps off the cliff and into the sea, it’s wonderful. His lungs are burning, they’re screaming for air — he dives further down, he doesn’t want to come back up.

He loves him. Prompto shakes in his arms, they’re both shaking. His veins burn, his senses are overwhelmed -- Prompto’s warmth, his touch, his smell, his taste. It engulfs him. Noctis welcomes the fire — it’s been his home for years, it’s always been his home. He’s never felt more at home then in this moment, a mattress too thin for two, metal frame digging underneath their bodies in a bunker best described as a cell. They’re in the middle of hell, but it feels like heaven to Noctis. He could die, be attacked in this very moment, but the sight in front of him — lips parted in longing, eyes hazed over, freckles shining upon sunset kissed skin — and he’d be happy. Gods, would this be the best thing fate has cruelly gifted him from the moment he was brought into the world.

He loves him, Noctis decides — lips ghosting over a mark that doesn’t define once more. He loves him, let death come if it wishes, in every lifetime, Noctis will find Prompto and he’ll love him.

Rewind, play, repeat…

 

**(VI. Sixth)**

 

“Your Majesty,” Prompto bows, Noctis quirks a brow up in amusement. “Mighty fine day we’re having in ever so sunny Lucis, is it not?”

“What are you doing?”

 _Play along,_ Prompto urges with his eyes, position still in a bow. Rising straight up with a clearing of his throat — he has to be loud, proud, and full of joy. At this moment, it doesn’t feel like he’s 30 and getting ready to rebuild the world from the ground up, in this moment he’s 15 again, pep talk in the school bathroom, hand fidgeting with the sweatband on his wrist.

 _Breathe, Prompto, you’re just gonna introduce yourself to the Prince, no biggie._ He slaps his cheeks in the mirror, his freckles stand out against the rising red of them — it’s time to go, he decides. Can’t let his confidence slide, not now. Maybe later when he’s locked away in the emptiness of his house and there’s nobody to question him screaming into a pillow from the simple sight of his appearance alone.

Flash forward to the present, and he’s here. There is no home — at least no physical embodiment of it for now. But there is a visual, there is a place — or places, he thinks logically, it all truly depends on wherever Noctis currently resides or is within the moment, that could be classified as home. Because that’s what Noctis is, that’s what he’s always been. Somewhere down the line — as cheesy as hell it might be (his mind goes back to that one day with Gladio’s comment) Noctis is his home, Noctis is where his heart resides.

“I’d like to introduce myself as your partner- _one_ of your partners,” Prompto flushes — foot in mouth, major foot in mouth. “That’s here and ready to rebuild all of Eos with you. I entrust my loyalty and self into your ever so capable hands. Ready to bring all the nations together, Noct?”

It’s softer, his not so introduction, introduction to the new life — their new life, their new beginning. Together, them — sure there’s others but not right now, not in the moment where it’s always Prompto first, all of Eos second, as selfish as that may be.

Noctis tugs Prompto forward (he recalls to a time when he wished physical contact was easier for him, a time where he wasn’t afraid to get burned — lost time, he wants to make up for that lost time) and gently cups at Prompto’s face. His thumb brushes at the skin under Prompto's lips — _I shave my facial hair for you, and all I get in return is a mock, after all the work I do for you._

“If by partner you mean being ever at my side like you promised,” Noctis echoes the words once told when the world was crawling at his back, when he was losing hope.

“Yeah.”

Prompto nods, there’s words unsaid between them. He knows this, Noctis knows this — at least he hopes he does. Noctis, he’s a hard book to read; Prompto skims every page twice (three times, a fourth) studying every line and in between one there is. He wants to know all, he only hopes Noctis reads him as well as he lays himself out for him. Heart on sleeve, mirror of emotions in his eyes.

He loves him, Prompto writes it out with a circular motion of his thumb against the back of Noctis’ hand. He loves him, a once sun kissed hand cups freshly shaven skin — _dude, it should be unfair as hell how good you look with and without facial hair._ He loves him, Prompto has always taken the step forward between them — _I’m not good with words,_ Noctis would sigh in the crook of his neck, _they don’t easily come out, but I hope you know._ He loves him, Prompto knows. He knows every thought, every emotion, every look. He’s known Noctis all his life — probably in past lives, most likely in future lives; _it’s not the first time, I’ve known you before, I'll know you always._

He loves him. He only hopes Noctis knows.

He does, he will — eventually, when Noctis realizes there’s six things he knows, not five.


End file.
